


Convenient Philosopher

by orphan_account



Series: Convenient Philosoper Universe [1]
Category: the GazettE
Genre: "Themes", Alternate Universe, Aoi is a host, Fluff, Introvert Uruha, M/M, Minor Angst, Slice of Life, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 00:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Uruha tells himself he is content. Student by day, cashier by night. It's nothing exciting but it pays the bills, and the quiet shifts give him time to get lost inside his own brain. He has everything he needs: A handful of friends good at tolerating him, two who almost understand him and is pursuing the love of his life - science. The last thing he needs is to get distracted by is that moronic, and slightly shady customer who seems to have his working schedule memorized. What a creep.





	1. Chapter 1

The way the unyielding hum of refrigeration joined forces with the ominous fluorescence beating down onto his skin like a tag team of oppressive annoyance. No matter how desolate his post was he could never be alone, cameras in the ceiling corners like the eyes of an eldritch beast. One that observed with disdain from his own abstract world  unable to touch the fabric of this one.  Behind the tinted glass, the neon-pulsing, ever-dim and bright of the city was still visible and even palpable. But untouchable enough that he felt kept from it, just as the thousand-eyed-monster of his imaginings was barred from gelatinous moving around the convenience store he watched over. Was gelatinous the right word? It was certainly grotesque, a mass of eyes and appendages covering the off-white tiles with a slime he knew he’d have to mop before his shift ended.

Uruha frowned, fingers tapping against the counter. He  wasn’t sure he liked the way he saw the world if a tentacle monster was the personal god he’d chosen. Though, what if the world didn’t like the way it saw Uruha? That was a different question altogether, one that would likely pass the hours-like-prisons he had left on the undeniably damned graveyard shirt.

Why did they call it a graveyard shift, anyway? Graveyards were busiest at night. Or at least, Uruha thought so. All the goth kids were out then, and the grave-robbers, not to mention the- 

“Good evening~”

Uruha’s head snapped to the automatic doors, doors that closed behind _him._ The cashier took him in like a breath; the scent of tobacco and the disheveled hair. Long and dye-black, like the designer suit he wore. Jacket open over a crinkled white shirt, buttoned down just enough to be too far. Lipstick on the collar, that was new. Not unthinkable, though. Given that to be up and wandering past the last train meant that he was probably a host. Or a gangster, or the a gangster’s lover on the run from his abusive-

 Or just, a host.

 “You’re supposed to reply to that, you know. Not just stare,” Customer-san teased with a slight slur. “If you were checking me out, _that_ would be fine.”

 A wink. A smile. Succulent would be the word. Of course, there was no way he was looking like that, at a man that drunk, that disheveled, so obviously disreputable...

  _This,_ Uruha thought to himself, _would be the time to remember how to talk to people._ Actual human beings as opposed to the 3am existential crisis friends and various other class acts playing roles in his life. Customers. He’d been instructed on how to do so not six months ago when he’d taken the job, through a series of  horrifically  happy training videos. The information was obviously in him, somewhere. He really did, despite Reita’s usual teasing, know to how to have a normal conversation.

He simply chose not to.

 “It’s morning,” Uruha said, pointing at the neon numbers on the wall. The third hour and thirty-fourth minute of the day, which was in turn the fifth hour and thirty-third minute of his shift. Yes, he was counting.

 Briefly, he pondered if Customer-san entering the shop at precisely three-thirty-three for the second time that week was any kind of auspicious or an accident of probability.

 “Good morning then!” Customer-san chirply, beginning his usual perusal of the offerings. Shelves like altar filled with essential junk and food that was actually decent.

It was a slow, snail’s crawl. He flipped through each magazine, took the time to smell each scented soap between glances back at the man behind the counter.

 Maybe he was a small time crook waiting for the chance to steal? But that wouldn’t make sense. He’d been coming to the same specific Family Mart Convenience Store for months on end, around the same time each night.

 Another glance, as Customer-san  grabbed a can of beer.

 It hadn’t been a good day. In fact, between the grind of work and the lackluster grade given to his best quantum-theory paper by the impotent and close minded flesh-bag that called himself a professor, it had been something close to awful. Or rather, yesterday had. The first three hours of that day weren’t shaping up to be too great either.

 Bad days created bad moods. And vice versa. But that was besides the point. That point was, that in that moment Uruha despised the feeling of being baited by a very attractive, slightly shady customer.

It was an effort to feign disinterest as Customer-san grabbed two onigiri and headed up to the counter. He placed his purchases down with a thud, smiling in a way that felt almost inane. Uruha kept his gaze anywhere else, focusing on the beep of the item scanner and the numbers feeding into the screen.

 “That comes to eight-hundred yen,” Uruha stated.  Bony fingers toyed with the cash tray as he waited for the inevitable. No point in asking the question.

 Customer-san pulled out his faded leather wallet and rummaged a bit before pulling out a thousand-yen bill. Bony fingers slid the tray over to the other side of the counter;  retracting far enough to avoid any chance touch but close enough that it wasn’t an effort to slide the tray back across the no-man’s land.

 He tentatively placed the money into the register, taking out two hundred-yen coins and dropping them into the tray. The little metal boat braved the counter sea again, sailing into a storm. A storm with slender fingers, close enough to touch as they went for the coin. Deft, graceful hands were a stark contrast to his misshapen ones. No mistake, his own were nimble enough, but certainly paled in comparison...

  _Let’s crash that train of thought, shall we?_

 Inappropriate. Excessive. A sleep and sex deprived train of thought.

 “Would you like a plastic bag?”

 The words were stiff on his tongue, the one hand still holding the tin in place.

“No thank you! I wouldn’t want to contribute to… what did you call it?” Customer-san paused, tucking some hair behind his ear. Not that Uruha’s watching, he’s busy cringing. Remembering the mood he was in that last time. “The repeated, thoughtless nonchalance of human disregard for our precious planet? It was something like that, wasn’t it? See, I listen.”

 The lights flickered. Uruha frowned. He recalled the day of the environmental studies binge, and the long night of torturous doomsayer thoughts that followed. The truth hadn’t changed since then, but the student seemed to care less that evening. The planet was fucked. What’s a plastic bag when apocalypse is imminent? Why did he feel somewhat pleased that someone remembered, that someone had listened to his irrelevant, dissatisfied rantings?

 “I don’t care. Have a nice day.” Robotic. Automatic.

 Just like the door Customer-san strode through after a small wave, barely stumbling. He’d be back, of course. And the distance would remain, a safe blanket of social surety.   It was better that way, right? He wouldn’t be hurt again, right?

_Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my attempt to cure writers block. I think it's working! I've been struggling to finish the third chapter of Kill Them With Kindness (sorry to anyone reading it, it is on it's way I promise) because it's all so serious, so I'm trying for something lighter instead. Fluff to come! I'm editing the second chapter tomorrow, should be up soon. Thank you for reading!!!!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

"You want to know something?" Customer-san said, without pausing to let Uruha not answer. "I wish you had a nametag."

An eyebrow raised of it’s own volition.

'Why?" Uruha asked. Mouth with a mind of it’s own.

Customer-san looked up from the random shoujo manga he’d been flipping through, his own eyebrows raising in what the cashier assumed to be shock. Though of course, the raven-haired host didn’t miss a beat.

"That way I wouldn’t have to suffer the rejection of asking your name and getting no answer."

Customer-san sighed dramatically, dropping the manga back onto the shelf. A week ago, Uruha might have scowled.

Instead, he busied himself staring thoughtfully out the window as Customer-san made his drawn-out circle of the shop with his beer and bento in hand. His footsteps added a layer to the ambience, less clumsy than usual. That combined with the lack of slurring indicated that the regular  wasn’t as inebriated as he would have been any other night. Yet he was still dressed up in the dressed down suit, the same one always. Stainless and crisp but for the creases of the night.

Thoughts became louder than footsteps, thoughts of what exactly the mystery man got up to in the hours before 3am. It was a wafting scent, of ash and women’s perfume. It became too easy to envision the musk of a bar, hear the soft jazz and soft chatter. Groups of women around the centerpoint of the tables and their man of choice. One would put their manicured hands on the raven’s arm.  Customer-san’s  the lush lips parted in silent laughter, head tilted back. That sparkle in his eye; trouble and the sense of knowing something you don’t. Smoke would have poured from the cigarette he pretended not to care about.

"Brooding on the nature of the universe again?"

The fantasy shattered into a thousand little pieces as Uruha startled, turning abruptly. The object of his imaginings was leaning into the counter, mouth curling in a half smirk. How long had he been standing there?

Reality was _terrifying._

"Uruha." A second word that had just _materialised_ , leapt out of his mouth without much thought behind it.

Customer-san looked fully surprised after that, no cool composure to hide behind.

"That’s your name?" he asked, both hands coming down onto the counter as he leaned in even until the whiskey-breath was tangible; throwing a spanner in the maybe-he’s-sober hypothesis. Uruha took a step back.

It was a name. Most people he’d met in Tokyo addressed him as such. However it was not the name that would be on his name-tag if he’d ever been given one. Not the true, genuine article.

"That’s what people call me," Uruha said with a shrug.

Customer-san was smiling, pure radiance.

"Well, people call me Aoi. Nice to finally meet you." Aoi bowed a little and Uruha inclined his head instinctively. It was the trap the cashier had been avoiding for months, dancing around it's edges for half a year.

"Likewise," he replied, though he wasn't yet sure.

An exchange in names created a sense of knowing, and obligation to use that name. An exchange of names gave the moans he let out in in his sleep a proper shape. No longer was he free to dream and daydream, build a mythos around the sensual stranger.

The transformation from curious dreamer to diligent miner, slowly digging through the layers of bullshit to find the truth of a person... it wasn't one Uruha made casual. Or often. Or usually deliberately.

Reita said he had an attitude problem. How absurd.

"That comes to nine-hundred yen."

Aoi. It sounded natural from his lips, slightly alarming. Yet it suited the man before him, though he couldn't help but wonder how it would read. What was the meaning of the kanji? As he slid the tray over the counter, the gears in his brain visibly turning. A busy little factory, no mistake.

The brush of knuckles felt against his fingers halted all production. An absent, lingering gesture of a perfectly casual kind, he assured himself.

Still, he felt shivers. The hair hanging in his face hid the dusk of his cheeks, or so he hoped and prayed.

Uruha snatched up the coins (the exact amount this time) and shoved the purchased items across the counter.

"Right then. Thanks," Aoi said as he put the bento in his canvas bag, cracking open the can of beer as he sauntered out. "I’ll be seeing you, Uruha."

 _Yes,_ Uruha thought to himself, _yes you will be._ There was nothing flirtatious about it. It was the plain truth, he’d be working the late shift and the customer would come in as he always did. So of course they’d see each other.

He was so busy over thinking that by the time he responded, Aoi was out the door.

"Have a nice...day…"

***

Behind his  eyes were colourful patterns, flights of fancy and several faces he'd been trying not to think about. But no semblance of sleep. Hours were wasted lying on the futon and staring into the expansive abyss between his eyelids. It had to be given a fair chance, after all, before he could abandon the task entirely.

It was this way that Uruha ended up crouched over his laptop in a indeterminable amount of hours passed, submerged in the world of the screen. The mouse clicked manically, flicking from decrepit week old tabs to the thirtieth of the seventh window, a more recent excursion on the nature and origin of the Host Club. A few windows back a litany of Shinjuku's Host Club's splash pages, but he'd rather pretend that search never happened when he wasn't intermittently engaged in it.

"Uruha."

The word bounced right off him.

"Uruha!"

Some kind of boomerang.

"Uruha..."

His head snapped in a way that was almost reptilian, the perfect match for the scaly bags under his eyes. The source of the noise was obnoxiously bleach-blonde, clad with ragged leather and a scathingly familiar sight.

Notably, he had been absent from their one-room-wonder apartment when the cashier had got home from work. However long ago that was.

"What?" Uruha snapped, irate at having already lost his deep-web train of thought.

"You look like shit. And you stink," his best friend observed, staring down at him with a parental-level disapproval.

"Thanks, Rei."

"I'm serious, damn it! Here we go again," Reita cursed, sighing before continued in an almost monotonous tone. It wouldn't last long. The proven theory was that Reita was only a habitual macho jerk. The asshole-factor was akin to a layer of cheap and nasty chocolate casing over an ice-cream that made you bliss the fuck out. Or in Reita's case, a  ridiculously genuine, all too caring human being. "Have you slept at all in the last twenty-four hours?"

A few ums and ers came out of the brunette. Reita rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure. Don't think so," Uruha gruffed.

"How about eaten?" The monotony was gone from Reita's words, replaced with the concern of a mother hen.

Now Uruha was even less sure. There was a vague recollection of eating salmon onigiri after work, but that could have easily been the night before. He shrugged.

"Possibly?"

Reita groaned and facepalmed.

"You're practically a thespian as things stand at the moment. Sure you don't want to switch to a drama major? I'm fine, okay?" Uruha retorted in his best sass-voice, the inherent fatigue holding him back from his full potential.

He found his attention drifting back to the screen, and the crypto-zoology forum he'd been lurking on in between his spurts of obsession. iLoveNessy89 made an excellent point. The sheer consistency of the legacy of the Loch Ness legend suggested-

There was a loud snap, and a blankness. There seemed to be empty space and a view of slightly-less-than-tastefully ripped denim where his forum had been. It took him longer than it should have to realise his laptop was sitting shut in his lap.

"Hey! Wh-" The brunette made a fair attempt at a sentence, cut off by the stern figure before him.

"-why don't you tell me what time it is?" Reita tapped on his watch expectantly, a bulky and digital monstrosity.

Uruha squeezed his eyes shut, mustering all of his brainpower into the a final and all powerful calculation. It was always such a reliable machine, made for research and science and mathematical messes. Luck didn't make one an honour student.

"Uhhh... morning? I got home from work a few hours ago..." Uruha guessed, the result of catastrophic engine failure.

 "It's three pm! Jesus Christ, I wasn't even gone for a full day-" Reita was beginning a rant, it could be felt deep in the bones of the reciever. The eyes bulging, the hand running through the over-styled hair.

The brunette stood and stopped it in it's tracks.

"I'm fine, Rei. Really. This is normal," he reassured, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

In return, Reita scoffed and crossed his arms.

"Normal my ass. What is it? A physics test?"

"No." Uruha raised an eyebrow. The lack of paper strewn around the apartment should have made that guess entirely void.

"Oh, right. The apartment is too clean for that. Did you start arguing with that chick about climate change again?"

That was a better guess.

"No."

"Some professor's comment get up all riled up?"

"No. That was last week," Uruha said with a sigh, stretching like a cat after a long nap.

Rolling from his heels to the balls of his feet,his fingertips touched the ceiling of the apartment. Reita was right. He felt absolutely wrecked. The general sensation of feeling hit by a truck was so strong that he was actually considering apologising.

"So it's a guy."

Uruha froze and stared at the smug bastard in horror.

"What?! No it's not! Why does that mean it's a guy? There are at least ten other probable answers I can think of off the top of my head. You're just... slow! Slow, and wrong." Even as he spoke, he felt the defensive rambles corroding his own argument.  All at once he felt cornered, a deer in headlights.

Nineteen years of friendship had it's drawbacks, that was for sure.

"Man this is like, your eighth grade crush level shit. Remember that?" Reita said, the smirk audible as well as visible. Of course he remembered. What kind of person forgot a first crush?

Shiro-san, a few years his senior. President of the drama club. He had an easy charm and the sweetest smile. Even a decade later Uruha kept the bullet-point list in his head. The scrawly thirteen year old's handwriting, pages of it in that one journal he could never find.

"You moped for months after he transferred. It looked a little like this, you know," the blonde continued, strutting over to the kitchen. "I'm making ramen. Want some?"

"Only if it's instant." The notion of Reita cooking never got any less terrifying. "I'm going to go shower."

"Thank god. Don't think about your man too much while you're in there, okay? It’s that guy, isn’t it? Customer-kun or something."

Caught in an exhale, Uruha started choking on his own saliva. In that moment he felt nothing but regret. All the times he'd complained, mentioned the beautiful raven in equal measures of mild interest and distaste.

"Fuck you," Uruha spat out, storming off towards the bathroom. The name, it wanted to bubble off his lips and go somewhere. Anywhere. And Reita, Reita knew how to talk to people. Maybe there was merit in admittance.

He threw a glance over his shoulder, biting down on this lip. A raw, exposed nerve. Vulnerable.

"And his name is _Aoi_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter but the next one is going to be fun :3 Thank you for reading ^^


	3. Chapter 3

‘ _Laurier Amour’_

The storybook script was engraved on a metal plate and coloured a sort of crimson. Against the dark wood of the door, it made an inviting invitation. Step out of the hustle of the street, into a world far removed from the hawkers and billboards aboun

It took Uruha a solid minute to bring his hand to the door and push. Long enough for doubts to form a plague and freeze him in his step.

On the wall adjacent to the door there was sparkling sign of the same script.

‘ _Welcome Princess!_ ’ It read against the gaudy red of the walls, flamboyant English as was the fashion.

Faint pulses of dance-beat bass emanated from the modest ceiling speakers. A light breeze from the door Uruha’s foot was keeping open tousled the glittering chandeliers, which spread a gentle light over the white leather seating and red velvet carpet leading up to the bar.  A contingent of tanned, toned and flawlessly styled men stood around a booth while loudly singing ‘Happy Birthday’, with an accompaniment of tiara-clad screaming girls and the popping of various corks. Combined with the smell of floor-bound champagne overflow and pungent vapours of expensive cigar-smoke, the thought of taking another step was terrifying. Overstimulating. Regret mixed with self-loathing, a cocktail more toxic that the obnoxiously pink one a waiter was carrying.

Still, he stepped forward. All three steps needed to reach the mahogany stand of the maître d'. The lack of someone standing behind it was more than made up for by the tv-screen above it, flashing men like choices from an excotic menu.

A dyed-redhead with glasses. A smirking bleach-blonde. The next was bright eyed and grinning, followed by a startling Kamijo look-alike and a pierced delinquent-type.

Text flashed up onto the screen, in the same gaudy script as everything else.

_‘And here is our Number 1 Superstar:’_

The breath left Uruha’s body as if he’d been holding it in for too long. Long raven locks, dazzling smile, eyes that taunted and beckoned.

The kanji read just like he thought it would. Aoi, the flower. The delicate. Simultaneously the antithesis and essence of his usually drunken customer.

That night would be different. That night, they  traded places. No more late-night debates and beer-breath banter. For the sake of academia he would continue. Pursue simply to observe the man in his natural environment. For science.

Though as he looked around, he found no sign of his quarry.

“Are you here about the job opening?”

A voice startled him out of his search, as often was the way. He met gazes with an older looking host, before the host’s eyes began to visibly travel over him. Under the slow and deliberate gaze he felt as wholly naked as the section of bare thigh between his short-shorts and knee-high boots. Each part of his outfit was a shade of black, with the exception of a silver chain bracelet and the subtle red of his lips.

“No,” Uruha managed to say, running a hand through his hair. He was met with the resistance of product and stiffness. “I’m here to request a host.”

The ageing host’s face lit up with a smug grin. It reeked of plasticity, as did his voice.

“Oh, oh! I see. It’s been awhile since we had a _prince_ in attendance.  Is this your first time at this kind of establishment?”

“No, it isn’t.”

The host nodded in full belief. The internet was surely a good enough supplement for actual experience in this case.

“Wonderful! I welcome you, prince-”

The stare was expectant and the upwards intonation telling of a question asked. It was another one of those many moments that extended into awkward silence as he wished for the power to pull some fitting, fantastic lie through his ass that would fill in the ominous blank.

Uruha sucked in his upper lip, lipstick smudging onto the tops of his teeth.

Silence.

“Uruha.”

Surrender.

The ageing host clapped his hands together, plastering on a smile.

“-Uruha-sama! As I’m sure you know, there’s an extra fee for requesting a specific host,” he continued in his overly animated way. “Depending, of course, on who you want to request. Shall I go through your options?”

When the maître d' smiled, Uruha saw cracks in the foundation. The orange tint of old spray-tan and the appreciation of the money this new customer was going to pour into the business. Yet there was a handsomeness, in a once-had-been kind of fashion.

“No, thank you,” he replied, tearing his eyes from beauty and abomination. “I'm here to see Aoi."

***

It was the usual social desert at the usual unsavoury hour. Flickering, fluorescent annoyance and the buzz of electric hums. Overstimulation heightened by bubbling bitterness, animosity towards the flow and ebb of the world and store alike. Especially the brightly coloured packages, every odd candy-brand or ready-meal hawked by whatever frustratingly overrated anime characters held flavour of the month. How was ice skating still relevant in the middle of summer?

He couldn't help but to muse that if his life was one of drawn lines and flat colours, they'd have drawn those wiggly dark lines around him. A cute but clear aura of warning, but not quite a true representation of the utter omniscient malcontent and irritation felt. Soulless animation.

How could such a medium convey his feelings? The weeks of courage slowly built, prodded and encouraged by Reita and an inordinate amount of research. Not to mention, the flirting. The optimism. It was a night Uruha knew his customer worked, a night he'd seen him with the suit on for months. It was the right place, felt like the right time.

It was a good plan. A perfect plan. But, apparently, not infallible.

The vibration against his left ass cheek sent him reeling from brooding into the fantasy that somehow Aoi had found him on line and was sending flirty messages there really was no hope for him anymore.

_2:51 am - Ruki: 'i need to borrow your straight friend'_

Cue a sigh. And confusion.

_2:52 - Uruha: 'i don't have a straight friend'_

_2:52 - Ruki: 'the straight seeming one, then.'_

_2:53 - Uruha: 'define straight seeming'_

Just what did it mean to seem straight? Uruha fathomed that he probably seemed straight, when he wasn't wearing lipstick and his knee-high monstrosity boots. The ones with the thick heels. The one's he'd put on specifically for his undying obsession.

_2:53 - Ruki: 'the hot one with the motorcycle gang aesthetic'_

Hot. Objectively easy to define from the perspective of society at large, mostly thanks to the conditioning of the human brain and the oversaturation of media. But Ruki wasn't exactly a society typical specimen. For one, he openly found Uruha attractive and Uruha didn't exactly meet any societal standards as far as he was concerned.

Just ethereal ones.

_2:54 - Uruha: '???'_

_2:54 - Ruki: 'sexy arms, talks a lot, weird nose bandage thing’'_

_2:55 - Uruha:  'reita?'_

_2:55  - Uruha: 'you could have just said my roommate'_

_2:55 - Ruki: 'and risk being inane? no thanks. but yeah, him. give me his number or his line id or whatever.'_

_2:56 - Uruha: '...why?'_

_2:56 - Ruki: 'ughh okay you're on planet earth enough to know that i'm doing another exhibition right?'_

_2:56 - Uruha: 'yes'_

_2:56 - Ruki: 'wow i'm shocked'_

_2:57 - Ruki: 'well k used to do security but as it turns out k is the biggest security threat fml'_

_2:57 - Ruki: 'did i show you those texts?'_

_2: 57 Uruha: 'yeah you did’_

A small noise of discontent escaped. Time was needed to rationalise whether Ruki’s physical and emotional safety was truly more important that his best friend’s privacy. It came down to gut instinct, and the concerned frown that Reita would sport once Uruha had told him the story.

_2:59 - Uruha: ‘i'll send you rei's line later then.'_

_2:59 - Ruki: 'great, thanks. do you think he'll do it?'_

_2: 59 - Uruha: 'if you tell him you think his arms are sexy'_

_3:00 - Ruki: 'i'll stroke more than his ego'_

_3:01 - Uruha: '...'_

The grimace was visible. Reita had all the sex appeal of a soggy biscuit as far as Uruha was concerned.

_3:01 - Ruki: 'jk jk >.>' _

_3:01 - Ruki: 'really though what are the chances he’ll do it?'_

The answer was obviously and undoubtedly yes, given Reita's natural protectiveness and the quiet ass admiration of the past but Uruha wasn't about to betray the confidence of his closest friend.

_3:03 - Uruha: 'moderate idk'_

Ears prickled at the sound of the sliding door opening, eyes didn’t dare flit from the screen to the storefront. The grip around the phone-case was white knuckled, no stress akin to _hope._ The flicker of the possibility that the customer was potentially _the customer._

"Texting on the job, are we?"

Uruha could feel the hand running through the sweat-damp hair and the way the muscle shirt clung to skin before he saw it. The cashier shrugged and looked away, trying not to look disappointed.

The vibrations of Ruki’s dialogue were placed flush against his posterior before he opened his mouth to speak.

“It’s quiet tonight,” Uruha said, watching his friend pretend to be interested in a magazine. “The protein bars have been moved to the back wall.”

Reita nodded, still flipping through the music magazine. Measurable moments were spent staring at dust particles, noting that there were three other konbinis between the all-hours gym and his workplace.

His roommate's visits weren’t exactly convenient unless he came from the apartment. Was the deciding factor doglike loyalty or simply the desire to see to him?

“No sign of customer-san yet?” Reita asked, dropping the magazine back onto the rack.

The scowl he received was well earned, paired well with gruff and grumpy tones.

“None at all.”

“Aw, man.” Protein bar in hand, Reita turned to face Uruha and did his little puppy-dog pouty face. “It’s been like what, two weeks? Maybe he’s waiting for you on the mothership. You’ve got to tell them to beam you up.”

With a broad grin, the moron pressed an imagined button; lips vibrating in a buzzing, beaming sound effect. Uruha rolled his eyes and leaned forward on the counter. Trying to to laugh, to smile or reward the clear effort to chase away the rain.

He thought back to the bad days, days that had sent him shaking and quietly crying in his bed. He remembered the knock on the door. The grinning idiot with the plastic bags, two scrawny kids on the couch watching Star Trek reruns and slurping instant ramen with the lack of consideration for sleeping parents that only teenagers could have.

The upwards curve of his lips felt strange, stretching muscles that hadn’t been used in awhile. Failure; out came the sun. And the closer came the suffocating scent of excess deodorant to mask the true smell of a workout. Worse than body odor itself.

“You’re ridiculous,” he replied, shaking his head. The protein bar landed on the counter with a small thud. “That’ll be three-hundred yen.”

“No discount for a bro?” Reita asked, pulling the aforementioned pouty face.

Uruha sighed.

“Please don’t call yourself a— Ugh. No. Three-hundred yen.”

The clink of three hundred-yen coins thankfully appeared before Reita grabbed his processed and packaged artificial-strawberry flavoured, toxic gym-culture enabling snack with another grin.

“You’re a real bro, bro,” he crowed. Uruha rolled his eyes, still smiling. Grateful for the reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Just without the one he wanted most.

***

After a brief exchange, Reita had broken out into a jog and faced the light summer spitting with gusto. The remaining hours of the night-morning passed with a swiftness and relative silence. The time wasn’t even realised until Uruha spotted his co-worker shuffling past the windows, uniform contrasting with the boringly-black umbrella.

Their eyes met for the slightest of seconds as they exchanged the masculine nod of acknowledgement. A moment of crossing paths before he set out past the automatic door.

A deep inhale assessed the downtown air, neither stale nor fresh and tinted with smoke. Amidst the pitter-patter of the light rain he could hear the footsteps of the commuting passers by, the  rumbling of the early trains and the stumbling of those ‘courageous’ few who stayed out from last train to first. The feeling of sunrise existed, even without the visual.

Uruha started his journey home; the full ten minute walk giving him a good chance to quieten his thoughts. The rain was almost soothing, and not hard enough to make him regret his decision. He enjoyed the city in the mornings, finding the stirrings of life much more overwhelming than the days in all of their over-populated glory.

Not that the feeling of being blissfully melded into a crowd of uncaring beings wasn’t a good one, it was simply that space was preferable.

Lost in comparison, he barely noticed the strange shadow. The way the rain danced around him, hitting every place but his body; as if shielded by the will of some extraterrestrial being. A phenomenon of science. Or a god. Or a disembodied voice, a breath against his ear.

“Heh. It seems so like you not to notice the rain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way too long! But here it is. Thank you to everyone who's commented and kudos'd so far, it makes my heart skip a beat every time! Doki-doki!!!
> 
> Before I forget: Special thank you to Hedoro (everyone go read her stuff, she's great!!!), without whom this chapter straight up wouldn't exist. (Thank you for beta-ing and all the motivation!) Also credit to the aoi-sensei for teaching me everything I know about cryptids. 
> 
> Three down, two to go!


	4. Chapter 4

Expulsion. Exodus.

The way in which the storefront window was host to the dissolution of thousands upon thousands of little droplets evoked slight stirrings of envy. The light shower had shifted into a summer storm, further fostering resentment and distrust towards public-figure meteorologists who were either incredibly stupid or pathological liars as far as Uruha was concerned. A conspiracy unfurling in his mind just as the pearls of tea were slowly stretched out by the water. Hands encircled the warm ceramic cup, almost white knuckled in their grip. The heat served as an adequate reminder to keep his gaze down, watching dried jasmine and wafts of steam in place of actually acknowledging his surroundings and situation.

Acknowledgement often meant acceptance, and that didn't seem to be an option. The small of his back still tingled from the touch, the guiding push towards a flickering neon sign promising thick, black liquid available all hours on the second floor. Refuge from the rain, the sudden and awfully convenient curse of pouring bloody rain that barely gave him time to breathe, let alone think. Uruha felt coerced, conned and cautious all at once; even though the man that belonged in the chair adjacent to him didn't exactly have to make a case. It seemed a rational, natural decision to follow Aoi just about anywhere under any conceivable circumstances.

Until forced to watch Aoi fluster the unassuming, mousy and over-worked looking barista with his infuriating, insipid smirk. The bottom of a teacup and nature's downpour were not serving as suitable distractions from the red of the blush on the woman's face or the sheer flirtation written all over the encounter. It was fascinating to watch the professional in action, Uruha assured himself that any dregs of envy were entirely irrational and duly ignored. It wasn't as if he'd been taken in by Aoi's pay-for-play charm; what kind of put-on charm did a three-quarters-drunk, disheveled host really have? He'd been crass, overt and persistent to a frustrating degree. Not to mention had an at least feigned interest in philosophical discussion and half-decent retention of conversations the pair had had over the counter. Of course, that was without counting the strange vulnerability in his eyes and the sense of an earnest man. A vague, fluctuating sense but it existed all the same.

That confounding combination had been enough to make two week's worth of customers feel like walking voids and instill a pang of longing with each slide of the conbini's automatic door. Even prior to that it drove him to follow the trail of dust into a particular host club and back out again no more the wiser, no less the fool. No mistake, the moment he'd heard the whisper and felt the touch Uruha had blossomed; opened to Aoi like a flower.

_ "Let's get out of this rain." _

Six words accompanied by the fact that Aoi's umbrella was perfectly functional, therefore they had never been in the rain to begin with... It was a steaming hot mess, memory as intangible and momentary as the condensation of rain hitting the sun-warmed footpath. It's subject was left stewing over his own stupidity, until the wafting scent of coffee overpowered his senses. It was a harsh jolt back to the present moment, eyes widening at reality's unfolding.

The steaming, caffeinated beverage was laid down on the table and nursed by the expected elegant hands. Uruha's eyes dared to flit upwards, their gazes locking for the briefest of moments. He wondered when exactly he was going to wake up, back aching from the way he'd been slumping over the counter. His own hand lifted the teacup to his lips. Fragrant liquid slipped through, warm and willing. Just as he'd imagined a certain tongue to be, the one hiding behind the absurdly full lips that soon opened to break the uncomfortable silence Uruha felt perfectly safe and sequestered in.

"I've been cheating on you."

The teacup clattered onto the saucer, a small spillage creating a moat around the cup. Uruha's jaw was entirely slack, eyes caught on the twisting smirk.

"Not with anyone memorable, though. Or local. Just some guy from my hometown. Cute enough, but overly polite. Always bowing and asking the right questions, it was an incredibly strange experience. Really." Aoi paused, a low vibration of deep thought replacing his words. His brow furrowed. "He had a nametag, though I can't remember what it said. But, it's over now."

The host clapped his hands together gently, smiling.

"I'm back now, and I've sorely missed your pathetic attempts at customer service. Did you miss me?"

Aoi cocked his head to the side, insufferable smirk back in full force. Uruha's mouth opened and closed several times, a veritable goldfish in the face of such a spiel. There was little enough time to process, let alone deconstruct the specific meanings of the various intonations and specific phrasing.

Left to flounder in the wilds of knee jerk reactions, he wasn't set to flourish.

"Maybe," Uruha said, taking up a sudden fascination with the mint-coloured wallpaper.

Perhaps not mint. More like a sickly kind of green. The kind of mucous one coughed up in the midst of a particularly nasty flu-

"Maybe? I see." Aoi asked, taking a good, long sip of his black coffee. "You're not willing to admit it."

Exactly the kind of coffee Uruha assumed he'd drink, though he never assumed he'd be sitting opposite the host as he did so. Engaging in a conversation that was almost indecipherable.

Trapped. Trapped between walls of words unsaid and the requirements he didn't understand. This wasn't normal! It couldn't have been. Yet, the other man seemed so blase about it all. As if he lead unsuspecting stragglers into coffee houses in the early hours of the morning to accuse them of... what?

"That I missed my favourite customer? No. Not really." Uruha cursed the weakness of his own voice. Exasperation. Whatever he'd envisioned in their first meeting, it wasn't this. Aoi sitting across from him, peering thoughtfully as if he was taking part of an investigation and his own self feeling strapped down by some kind of social bondage. "Aoi, just... What are we doing here?"

Eyebrows rose. Uruha looked into the green of his tea. It was a nicer green than the walls. Though not nearly as green as he felt.

"Talking. About how I've been a conbini whore, and how you've been, oh you know..." Aoi paused, letting several beats of silence pass under the intensity of his stare. "Stalking me."

Uruha's gaze was blank, his blinks frequent and almost wooden. The beating in his chest couldn't be attributed to attraction, nor could the tensing in his muscles and the way his breath began to shorten.

"Stalking?" The accused repeated, slowly and lowly. "You think I've been stalking you?"

The task of lifting a cup to his lips became one fraught with danger, the slight quiver of anxiety making tea seas a little rough. There was the smirk, again.

"I  _ know _ you've been stalking to me. Or rather, my sources tell me an Uruha  _ requested _ me at the club. Coincidence?"

Stalking? Considering the amount of times Aoi had been entirely plastered it was plausible to Uruha that he'd assume he told the cashier one drunken night, therefore there was no need for decision. And it wasn't as if the information had been hard to find. Aoi's face was displayed on the splash page! Host club websites weren't exactly in the deep web. Was a simple google search really considered stalking? What if Uruha had a casual interest in Host Clubs?

"No, that was me," he relented. Sighing. Biting down on his lip, the hull of his mind moving at full speed to try and find the words the explain exactly how he'd come by the information and what exactly his intentions had been.

Not that he got the chance.

Aoi's hand came down on the table as he gasped, sinking any coherent thought process. Head shaking, thick lips pursed, the dark stare made him squirm and brace for the words to come. The condemnation, it was the same look given by Kai the morning after they'd-

"Damn! So it really was you? Lipstick and knee-highs, Kamu said." Aoi groaned, in a way that could have been considered lustful. The brunette blinked, several times. "Lipstick and knee-highs. Jesus fucking christ. You couldn't have come one day earlier so I might have actually been there to see it?"

_ What the fuck is going on? _

"You were supposed to be there! You work every Thursday," Uruha said, stating plain fact. Plain, glaringly obvious fact.

The darker haired man looked incredulous.

"And you're not stalking me?"

"Of course not. I just notice these things. You come in, in that suit, drunk out of your mind every single Thursday with the exception of the recent weeks. Speaking of, if I were stalking you, wouldn't I have known that you'd gone away?" Obvious, it was so obvious.

It was like trying to explain string theory to that stoner who liked to sit beside him in lectures. He even used the same voice, dripping with his own special brand of superiority.

Aoi pulled back, eyebrows raising further.

"You know that I went away?"

Nostrils flared, tea was sipped. Uruha wondered how he was ever anything but frustrated with this frustratingly attractive moron.

He tried to even out his voice, and diffuse some venom from his eyes. It wasn't easy. More than twenty-four hours of open eyes meant swimming fatigue and twice as much irritability as usual, startling situations aside. Stupidity was always difficult to meet with compassion.

"You told me you did at the start of this conversation. Between the lines of... Whatever that was."

"I see," Aoi braced his hands on his knees, leaning in to the table. Examining. And close, close enough to whisper. The non-scent of spirits on his breath felt like an assault. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

A flutter of definitely-not-anxiety, a few heartbeats missed... And a few, precious syllables of laughter. Outside of Reita and irony, Uruha's laughter was exceedingly rare.

"You, are a very strange man." The look, the widening in those deliciously dark eyes. Aoi seemed to know, or so Uruha chose to believe. And so he smiled. Even with the feeling of the barista's eyes and the third-person image created of the empty coffee shop; soft pop playing through the muffled, aging speakers, a long-haired host leaning over the table, face mere inches away from that of a scrawny and startled looking Uruha. Haggard, fatigued and likely being played. Or so the more skeptical parts of his mind echoed.

"Mm." Aoi seemed to agree, nodding his head.

Uruha's eyes caught on the swish of raven hair as he moved back into his proper place, the twinkle in his eyes as a soft smile came to light.

In that moment, there was no distorted music. No sound of the rain, no scent of the thick, black caffeine contrasting with gentle jasmine. Only the awestruck look, as if the host was distant and drugged. And Uruha? Uruha was spiralling out of his body, surely in some astral plane far from this surreality. Far enough way that when lips quirked and moved to make shape and sound, he swore he must have misheard.

"Beautiful." Aoi smiled wider. "Weird and wonderful. We should go out sometime."

***

A soft thump signaled the back of Uruha's head hitting the door, breaths leaving his body in short and pointed bursts. The lines of fire burning in his muscle were not the pleasant ache of exertion, more like the raging hellfire that came as a consequence of shock-suppressed nagging thoughts. The downgrade from functioning human to creature in crisis was like a wave that crashed down onto him the moment he entered the apartment.

"Oh god, oh god." Feverish whispers as his back slid down against the door, head in hands. "Oh godohgodohgod." It had all happened so _fast_. Unplanned, unprepared. Impossible.

The more the words played over, and over and over, the more he trembled. Trepidation. He would still feel his own, singular word like a bad taste in the back of his mouth.

"Oh god, oh please, it can't happen again," Uruha whimpered. His knees locked tight against his chest. Heat welled in stinging eyes.

Face hidden in the comfortable darkness of his fingers, he tasted his own tears.

"Uruha?" Disgruntled but familiar, a surge of panic rippled through him nonetheless. "What's the matter?"

It was laughter's bitter cousin that left his lips, a strangled and strange sound muffled against his palms. There was no God. Personal, private or omnipresent.

Just Reita. Reita, who it should be noted had once slept through an earthquake. Awake. Sentient. Uruha could feel his shadow over him as sure as he knew the voice.

"Talk to me, please." That pleading husk. Uruha didn't need to peek through the gaps in his fingers to see the brow furrowed by concern. Eyes wide, eyes trying to look into his own. "I'm here for you. Whatever it is, I'm here."

Ground was stood, a duelist burying his boots in the sand before high noon. Gunslingers didn't cry, you see, and if he was to face his opponent he'd need a brave face. Not tear tracks burning their way down to his chin, snot leaking from and into available orifices. The face of a coward, and he knew it. But wasn't it better to run and be safe? It seemed a better option than nursing the inevitable wounds, lying in the sun as blood trickled endlessly onto the desert floor. Or the tatami, in the face of his bleeding bloody heart.

"Come on, Uru. Don't leave me in the dark."

Unkempt fingernails curled into Uruha's forehead in protest to the calloused fingers trying to free his face. ' _ Let in the light _ ,' said the touch. The crescent-moon marks on his brow were the final scream before the giving of way.

To the soft light of the rock salt lamp, the draught coming in from that one window that would never shut properly. His best friend's face. The concern, the panic.

And the events of the night that came rushing back, like demons through a smudged salt circle in some b-grade horror debacle. The high-school students that found an old book in the basement, covered in dust and that scent pertaining to old parchment. The rituals, they tried with stifled giggles and amateur theatrics. Not believing in the true unseen. It didn't seem a fair comparison, even those entities deemed beautiful paled.

No demon held half a candle to Aoi, beauty unique and sanguine.

"Aoi's back," Uruha croaked. The name near closed his throat. "He asked me out."

Reita made a face. A sour-blueberry kind of expression, and slumped down to join his friend on the floor. He sat with his legs spread, arms dangling over his kneecaps and eyes avoiding Uruha's.

"And you..." Reita paused, eyes flitting to meet the honey-coloured hues before him. He bit his lip, teeth playing with the peeling skin. "Rejected him?"

The brunette huffed and smiled. It wasn't an outlandish suggestion, the momentary and accidental rebuttal of an invitation he actually wanted. It wouldn't have been the first time.

"Worse." Tears still streamed, just silent and a little slower. "I said okay.  _ Okay _ ." Which was, undoubtedly the worst possible answer. But how could he have refused the casual suggestion, the suave words of that stupid man? And how could he explain just why not, the hundred thousand strains of reason that should have had him screaming no at the time as he sobbed it behind the door. Once closed.

Uruha waited for a question, for anything more than the slow cock of Reita's head. Who adopted the mantle of curious puppy, patiently waiting for the words that struggled to come out.

"It's simple. We'll go out, for lunch. For coffee. For whatever. And he'll laugh, he'll humour my interests and look over me with those eyes. It's always fun for the first few dates, right?" Uruha made a sound that was either a half-sob or snort and rolled his eyes. The sarcasm dripped off his words, unpracticed words. "I'm strange, I'm interesting. They've never met anyone quite like me. But the intriguing becomes frustrating, doesn't it? And I won't know, I won't know when the novelty has worn off until the day he tells me. It's not me, it's him. But it's me. It's always me. It'll happen again, I'm unlovable," he spat. He snarled. He wanted to scream.

How could he feel anything but spite for himself, for his mind and the ceaseless problems it both saw and caused. In that moment he envied the way the gears turned in his best friend's mind. Not that Reita was simple, by any means. Just normal.

"Uru... That's not true," Reita said, soft in tone. "You're plenty loved. I love you, and your other friends love you. Your sisters love you. Plenty loved."

Yes, entirely ordinary in all things. Except perhaps his loyalty, the compassion Uruha knew he didn't deserve. How time had elapsed from the first hand extended, lifting a pre-pubescent Uruha off his missed-kick muddy knees to the one that rested hesitantly on his shoulder was a mystery. What was Reita doing, stuck with a freak like him? It was a thought that popped up all too often, accompanied by the crippling anxiety brought up by imagined scenarios of finally driving Reita away. By accident, always. Or by a build up of unspoken mistake.

Uruha sniffled, wiping away tears with a bare-fisted vengeance.

"Not like that. Not in the way that I think I could...with him..." Did he look as helpless as he felt, as helpless as the eventual reality made him feel? Crushed under the weight of inevitability. No matter what was said, he knew the truth of it. Unlovable. "And he won't, he can't because I'm a freak. It'll be just like the last time."

Freak. Bad. Weird. Different. Savant. Strange. He didn't need a diagnosis to know what it was. It wasn't something spoken of, not openly. Confirmation would be a thousand doors closing in his face, all in fear of what they didn't understand. A broad and understudied spectrum, in which he was lucky to place quite high upon. It was easier to hide, easier to mask that way.

"Whoever this guy is, he isn't Kai. He isn't the arse end of the human race, and if he turns out that way it isn't your fault. You're not a..." Reita sighed and shook his head, looking up at Uruha with those puppy-dog eyes.

Arms wrapped around the scrawnier man, encircling him. Pulling him into certainty.

"Come here, dummy," Reita whispered, though it seemed futile. How could Uruha get any closer than with a face pressed against a bulging shoulder, and not recoil at the touch? "So, you think a little differently. Doesn't make you a weirdo, just makes you... you."

This caused a smile into the sinewy muscle. Uruha's own arms wrapped around his best friend's torso, pulling him close. And so grateful. So grateful they could be like this, this safety and comfort far beyond romance. Unconditional. A sensation that took the edge off.

"So eloquent," Uruha muttered, shaking his head. An indication of general 'okayness', almost squandered by an upwards gaze. It was important not to look up into worried eyes that would open floodgates. Not when the tremors had finally stopped.

Reita chortled, and squeezed his arms a bit too tightly.

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up, smartass."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies! This wasn't supposed to take as long as it did, it was more or less the nightmare chapter. But anyway, I hope it was somewhat worth the wait. Thank you, dear readers, for going on this journey with me!

Heels clicked decidedly on the footpath, somewhat evoking a sense of sureness in their destination. A far cry from the flat-footed sandal shuffle that was the usual summer sound associated with Uruha and his movement. Long legs striding in surety contrasted against a periodically chewed lip, fidgeting fingers and eyes that shifted from stranger to stranger; sliding off to the side at the precise moment of meeting another pedestrian's face. The mind behind those eyes was neither in the moment nor distinctly far away, more scattered to absolute oblivion than anything else. There was a sign that glowed the same mulled-wine as the shirt Aoi was wearing the last time he came into the konbini, a florist with flowers evoking specific kanji and lingering phrases with Reita's voice attached.

_ "What's the worst that could happen?" _

He had been so well-intentioned as he asked his rhetorical, redundant question with a broad grin and firm clap on Uruha's shoulder. It could be said that Reita was just as unaware of his own strength as he was the churning anxiety caused by such well-meaning words. There had been no cause or time to respond verbally, ushered out the door by those same strong arms.

His body seemed to take it from there, leading him out onto the street. Submitting him silently to humidity and bustle, barely avoiding the screaming responses.

_ I could ruin everything, say something entirely out of place and ensure he never speaks to me again. _

The shade of the train station was welcome, the endless beeps of ticket cards against gateways simultaneously soothing and stimulating.

_ Conversely, he could be entirely lurid and scare me away. _

Fear seized his body for the briefest of moments. More instinctual paranoia that the gates would slam into his hips, forced closed by some freak glitch than anything else. The all-clear flooded him with relief.

_ We could always disappoint each other so catastrophically that it's all awkward silence and a mutual agreement to never meet again. _

The conglomerate crowd around him felt like a breathing organism. Even if so many of its parts pushed and pulled against each other, muttered apologies out of thinly veiled obligation. Everyone had a different place to be, or if not, a different reason. Uruha was no different. Another desperate traveler contributing to the rush, aiming for the 1:03 to Shinjuku Station.

_ That's without admitting the possibility of ulterior motives. The long game he's been playing could be exactly that. _

A sweaty hand closed around the hanging handle a little tighter as bodies closed in around him. It was confounding just how many different shades of black presented from suit to suit, and the endless swathe of salarymen and women proportionate to drown in. Stale sweat, dark patches underarm that were barely noticeable. The excess carbon dioxide felt palpable, that and the fact that the woman whose bag dug into his side had clearly had some form of pickled food recently.

_ A patient murderer? Seducing me for the purpose of removing my skin? _

The feeling of being genuinely wanted was a vague sense in the back of his brain, unable to be computed. Undigested on account of it being categorised as an impossibility. Aoi had to want something practical that Uruha could provide. Sex? Sex was still something, albeit a portion of the hint of completion. The longing for acceptance. The notion of being boyfriend material.

Impossible. Right?

Bag-lady swiveled, edges of her monstrous leather (possibly brick-filled) appendage further crumpling the heather-grey t-shirt he'd fretted over earlier. The lime-green and romanized proclamation of "ALIENS EXIST" was as close to 'being himself' as he'd get in public, following Reita's advice of keeping it casual and not "overthinking it, like you normally would." The accompanying slightly too short-for-comfort shorts had been an attempt at following someone else's advice.

_ 12:20 - Ruki: 'show some skin, it's summer for fuck's sake and what's the point of having hot legs if you never show them off??? fucking loser' _

Uruha's phone vibrated, in turn sending his heart into his throat. It was Aoi, it had to be. Cancelling, and taunting with his ridiculous snow-filtered profile picture staring smugly from inside the screen. Hesitant, heart palpitating, his free hand danced down to his pocket, attempting to avoid collisions and muttering apologies when his elbow met various limbs.

Meeting with a different kind of demon.

_ 12:40 - Ruki: 'don't i get an updated outfit pic??' _

_ 1:10 - Ruki: 'you better not still be wearing those baggy jeans, i'll kill you myself' _

Each word exuded the dry, snooty tone that would have dripped from the jarringly deep voice if they were spoken. A ghost of a smile appeared on Uruha's face, given a perfect distraction from the relief and disappointment.

_ 1:11 - Uruha: 'people keep staring at my legs thanks to you' _

_ 1:11 - Ruki: 'as if you'd notice' _

_ 1:12 - Uruha: 'rude' _

_ 1:12 - Ruki: 'true though' _

A polite, synthetic voice wrestled him from attempts to drum up a witty response. Doom approaching in the form of his destination and a reminder to mind the gap. Almost like an offer: " _ Be swallowed by the space between the platform and two-hundred tonnes of steel and avoid the date, also the rest of your life! _ "

A small fraction of Uruha's brain considered the morbid prospect with a mock-seriousness.

Not truly suicidal. Just scared.

_ 1:12 - Uruha: 'gtg my stop' _

_ 1:13 - Ruki: 'k. remember, you got this' _

Remember? There was never anything to forget. Pocketing his phone, the sense of not having anything remotely close to 'this' was very strong.

Ruki's confidence was not contagious. Instead, it created a competition based around just how small Uruha could make his steps (with the exception of the one that carried him over the gap between train and platform, despite the melodrama of earlier thoughts). With the change in size and speed, and added pressures of collisions and busy streets, he was sure he was able to add an extra ten or so minutes onto his arrival time.

By the time he reached the designated destination, he half-believed Aoi could have already left, mistakenly believing he'd been stood up. Possibly. Maybe.

Hands reached the glass door, a surface not designed to brace. It swung open, antiquated brass bells jingling softly.

Malfunction.

A ponytail, lazy enough to be casual but not quite a mess. An oversized shirt, the latest dictation of youth street fashion, paired with too tight jeans. Socks and sandals, one foot absently nudging a plain-black backpack. Lush lips pulled into a concentrated frown, brow creased just a bit. A curved thumb flicked through a feed of some kind, peering down at the smartphone screen through the most oversized, overcompensating sunglasses Uruha had ever seen—the only critique, the only flaw he could possibly make out in the man and it wasn’t even a part of his genetic makeup. 

Uruha's brain tried to piece the elements together, perfectly shaped pieces of a puzzle that could not form a full picture in those clumsy thought-hands.

When eyes met, he thought he'd fall through the floor.

"Are you going to sit down?" Aoi's lips moving, sound coming out. Signature smirk. Voice laced with amusement. Compute. Compute.

Uruha made a sound of contemplation, automated cover for the recovery process. The leg of the empty chair was nudged, Aoi pushing it further towards him. Cafe-goers cradling their steaming beverages had begun to stare.

"Mm, I don't know. I think so," Uruha said, managing the movement of slowly descending onto the wooden chair.

It was one of those modern hangouts, recycled wood chairs and fair trade coffee touted around and about in take-out cups that were stamped with the friendly green triangle. The little lie of recyclability that made the average half-caring person feel a little better about their own destructive habits. That somewhat aggressive yet detached train of thought was a suitable distraction from the pressing silence and bubbling need to say something, anything.

"You know, you're late. I was starting to think you weren't going to show," Aoi began, pocketing his phone. "I somehow had this image of you being punctual."

The smile that appeared on Uruha's face was surprisingly genuine, if a little sheepish. Aimed directly at the man opposite him, until it soured.

_ Already a disappointment. _

"It's actually the opposite. I have the tendency to just… lose time..."

Uruha's finger slipped through the intentional laceration in his shorts and toyed with his thigh. Disappointing and difficult.

"Lose it?"

A nod. Bow lips thoroughly bitten, brain stuttering in response to the quirk of Aoi's eyebrow. The genuine question in his eyes.

"Yeah. One minute it's there, the next minute it's gone. Just like that."

Aoi smiled. 

In that moment, Uruha knew that time wasn't all. The ambient bustle, names called and whistle of the espresso machine; the soft chatter of the couple on the verge of collapse behind them, the whooshing rotation of the ceiling fan. Awareness of the endless flood of strangers strolling past the window was only lived in the way their shadows flickered across his date's face, hiding the pronounced bags under his eyes and the lines that formed from too many smiles. Or smirks.

"Time's funny that way. Easily wasted. I mean look at us." Aoi gestured broadly to the pair of them, hands moving the more he spoke. "Six months to get here. Where we've wanted to be for a while, right?"

The straight-shooting had their gaze meeting and Uruha blinking blankly.

"Of course- I mean... But... just why? Why me? Of all people." Swimming, sinking into the fog of disbelief.

The response was a shrug of shoulders and a self-conscious touch to his ponytail. Aoi's foot tapped against the table leg, his fingers copied the beat on his knee. Surely not nerves?

"Why not you?" Aoi asked. The fog seemed to thicken.

"I was so rude, for one... But I don't think listing all of my faults is acceptable conduct on a first date..." Uruha trailed off, eyes darting around the edges of his companion's face.

Eye contact seemed to move from compelling to entirely unthinkable; the lack of it was unable to shield him from the quirk of lips in his peripheral vision.

"Mmhm. You're right there. It'll spoil the surprises," Aoi started, hands moving with him again. "But right there, there's a reason why. Your lovely lips and the way you speak. I've never heard anyone else talk the way you do."

More blinking like a deer in headlight, amber eyes wide and disbelieving.

Uruha wondered when he was going to wake up.

"You're attracted to my... vocabulary?" Incredulous. Unthinkable.

Yet, eyes landed on the strangest of sincerity. The light flush of sun-kissed skin. Or was it fake tan?

"And your phrasing, if we're being specific. Of course, I thought it was weird at first but... I don't know. You're... Unfiltered." Aoi paused, leaning in a little. Eyes flitted together, more than crossing paths as those lush lips opened again. " _ Genuine _ ."

The brunette's saliva travelled down his throat with an audible force, Adam's apple moving all too noticeably. Thoughts raced like lines of error code flooding a blue screen. It was the computer logic unit all over again. Variable unknown.

_ Variable unknown. _

"I like that answer." Uruha managed, in fear of stretching silence. It wasn't as if he knew what to say, not now that the floodgates had opened.

If someone wasn't interested in him for his looks, it was his eccentricity. The faraway look. A foreign object. Or they wanted something. And naturally Aoi wanted something, but it wasn't pressing or malicious enough to fall within the parameters of his poorly written logic statement. The softness in him, the way Aoi slid his sunglasses to rest on his forehead and let Uruha deep into those dark, sad eyes...

"Good. Where's mine?"

And he was  _ drowning _ . 

There was such a sensitivity in the man Uruha faced, such untouched depths. The thoughts and reasons were clear-cut, all that was left was cultivating somewhat socially acceptable phrasing. Eyes narrowed as he tried to string together a sentence, moving his gaze to an unfocused vaguely tree-shaped blur on the other side of the window.

"No, wait, don't tell me. I'll guess. It was my striking figure! My unearthly handsome face. You were stunned by the true beauty that is Aoi," Aoi said, chuckling in punctuation. It was so Aoi, to laugh at his own attempts at humour. The barely funny, hardly passable jab at his own ego.

A man who was physically attractive to an almost unfair degree had no right to be glib about it. And Uruha had no right to find it endearing. Yet, there they were. Two rebels, working outside of established rights.

Uruha shook his head, unable to hide his own smile. The answer revealed itself in Uruha rolling his eyes, tension draining from his body with each passing second. It wasn't so bad. This wasn't so bad. Aoi was many things. Beautiful, generous, gentle, charming...

"Absolutely abominable. That's what you really are."

***

In time, there had been a second date. A third. And so on, and so on, all of a similar and shockingly non-threatening nature. It became too difficult to shyly refuse when asked to ‘come over,’ nigh impossible to convince himself that he didn’t want to. 

An unavoidable eventuality.

Uruha shivered. Under his fingers, the neck felt an ungodly kind of smooth. The perfect length, the perfect  _ elegance  _ offset by such a shapely figure. All the right curves, the strange ridges. Touch betrayed sight, grain of the body a tangible sensation underneath the perfect-void finish. Black gloss, reflective of the eyes he'd been stuck in as the hours ticked over. Hushed conversation, Aoi began it again with an appreciative hum.

"She's gorgeous, right?"

Fingertips ran up the veins, steel strings so utterly lacking in ambient dust. Uruha was oblivious to his own smile, a slight quirk at the thought of late nights spent straining the edges of fatigue for the sake of sound. He nodded.

"Very beautiful." Uruha brought his hand back to his side, thumb running over the pads of his fingers. Absent. Nervous. Forced to look true beauty in the face, confront that shit-eating grin.

Teeth played with his bottom lip, biting back the scrutiny of using female pronouns for an inanimate object.

"You should hear her," Aoi crowed in time with a grand gesture, jingling keys sliding over the kitchen-unit counter. They recoiled upon collision with an unpacked shopping bag, branded with the blue logo of convenience, skidding to a finite halt. "She plays like a dream."

The fantasy of asking for a private concert was a sheet of glass that Uruha went at with a mallet. This wasn't some romance novel. He'd deduced as much when he'd first felt reluctance, the sweet sting of backing into a bad situation. The sun had set over Tokyo, their fifth date due to scatter like dust in the wind when Aoi had asked the trying question.

And Uruha told himself repeatedly that the answer he gave was out of curiosity. It wasn’t giving in. Instead, it was merely that he wanted to see what Aoi's apartment looked like, even though he knew for certain exactly what it would be like. The standard box-complex, 'open plan' and lazy design. Only slightly larger than his, though it was lacking the sense of another inhabitant. The solitary air that made it seem near twice the size. 

The couch was black leather, and covered in various effects; futon out and made like a bed. The television was as new a model as he expected, as predictable as the existence of a closet despite the contents of it clearly poured across the room without thought. Down to the finest detail, it was exactly what he'd been expecting, with the exception of the various guitars that spotted the floor space.

So if not curiosity...

Was it for the flash of panic, the widening eyes and rush to move the clutter from the couch? For the offer of open doors, vulnerability exposed? For the gleaming smile glimpsed at his acceptance? Not quite the smug victory he’d been expecting.

Nor was Aoi at all what he expected, come to mention it. Time unravelled more surprises than he could count.

Calculated steps were taken towards his host, away from the comfort of foreign object observation.

"Do you... play often?" Uruha asked, though it was a struggle. The brief journey from cafe to Aoi's apartment had tightly bound the casual tones he'd managed to shift into in the safety of a crowded environment.

If it vexed Aoi to be seemingly back to square one, he hid it well in his small smile and gesture to the empty space on the sofa.

"Every single day." Aoi grinned, plopping down on the worn leather as if he owned the place. Which he didn't, clearly. If he had, Uruha was certain the guitars would have been mounted on the walls.

In turn, he sat down with a stiff and practiced movement. Undone by the sense of sinking into the softness, being swallowed up by the voluminous padding. His side practically dug into the armrest, one leg crossed over the other firmly in a bid to take up as little space as possible.

Meanwhile, his host stretched in a feline manner, crackling sound in his shoulder as he pointed to the well-loved guitar.

"That little beauty is actually the reason I came to Tokyo. Big dreams..." Aoi seemed to begin, though the shadow that crossed his face chased the rest into silence.

It was simple enough to watch Aoi wrestle with those inner demons, the fight clear in his furrowed brows. To tell, or not to tell.

_ Questions not uttered will remain unanswered. _

Uruha cocked his head to the side. The shackles of shyness left marks around his wrist but he'd recovered his voice at least.

"What dreams?"

"Oh, you know. The same old thing." Aoi shrugged, lips curled in mock-uncaring. Uruha saw. Dreams like well-loved posters curling off the wall, dog-eared from all the times they'd been restuck. Dreams that brought about bitter tastes, faded hopes and patched-up pain. Aoi seemed to glance with knowing, pointed. "I'm sure you can put the pieces together."

Of course he could. It would adhere to the itch in the back of his mind to do so if little else. A moment's thought discarded. As if... As if he would sacrifice the warmth that permeated the space between them. The way Aoi's hand had inched from his own knee to the crack between cushions. The fragile trust built up over months of dancing, dodging, and these precious hours weighed in Uruha's bony hands. It's value determined.

Long lashes fluttered, weight shifted. The light flush of his face was undeniable and entirely bared as gazes met.

"I'd… I'd rather hear it from you..." Uruha trailed off with a short and shaky breath. "If it's a story you'd like to tell.” Too open, too doe-eyed looking through his long lashes. Saving face was an effort, an awkward laugh and soft sigh. “I mean, don’t you love the sound of your own voice?"

***

Somewhere along the way, Aoi's head ended up resting gently on Uruha's legs. Lengthy fingers made short work of little twists and turns, twisting and threading the strands of raven hair together. He was a better listener when his hands were occupied, focused and silent as the grave. And Aoi, word after word he painted his story with the angst and passion of a starving artist.

"-so, that was the third band in a nutshell. The fourth... Fuck, talk about a clusterfuck. And this one was all on me. I was so done by that point, you know? The industry just sucks it out of you. You're not pretty enough, you're not in, hip, you're not selling enough or getting enough attention. But to the fans, you're like gods. Gods they want to touch. And how was I supposed to know she was, y'know... She told me she was twenty-one. It's not easy to say no. They don't teach you that. You're always taught to reach for what you want, to work towards your dreams, never to discern. If I'd known then what to refuse and what to accept... Ah, shit. Sorry. I'm going on and on." Aoi's flowing speech came to a stunted halt.

The listener saw the blush under the tan, pride in his eyes bruised and battered. Unravelling. Effortlessly beautiful.

Uruha smiled a wry smile. "You are, but I'm interested. What happened after the fourth?"

"This. I mean, the host thing. I've been a host ever since the band broke up. Three years now."

"Three years?" Uruha asked, eyebrow quirking. "And you're what... twenty-six?"

Laughter rippled through the host, shaking his chest and shoulders. His eyes crinkled with a broad-mouthed grin

"I'm not going to answer that. But yes, I am certifiably past the industry use by date, thanks for noticing," Aoi said, rolling his eyes.

From Uruha's 'limited' research, he knew that there were only a scant handful of hosts over twenty-five. The pictures gave it away, hopeful youths who didn't know yet that they'd drink their future away. Yet here was Aoi. A mystery, a challenge, Uruha wasn't about to back away from. He finished another minute braid before he spoke again.

"Twenty-seven?"

"Higher."

"Twenty-eight."

"Higher."

"Thirty?"

"Soon enough I will be. God..."

When Aoi cringed, he cringed with his whole body. Muscles clenching, face screwing up. He'd never been able to notice before, to see it. Sober. Unguarded.

Uruha sighed happily and wondered, briefly, if he had ever been so happy before.

"I thought host clubs didn't hire past the mid-twenties?" Uruha asked, biting back the old man comments.

Anxiety lingered like a fly in the back of his mind, spawned from the seven years he now saw between them. A long time, too long maybe. Incompatibility based on different stages in life was a primary killer of relationships, or so late-night articles rang in the back of his mind.

Until a smirk, the charming and insufferable kind that both disarmed and answered the question before Aoi so much as opened his mouth.

"They can't afford to lose me over something as silly as age. I charm the money out of too many pockets."

Almost thirty. He watched Aoi's foot tap against the armrest of the couch, thought back to Aoi's secret taste. Lips on lips. How many had he had in the back room of that false paradise? Or the groupies of days yonder, the screaming sycophants of both sexes who could simply not resist a man with quickened fingers and a rock-star smile. All that to Uruha's one. The singular disaster, absolute mistake that was Kai.

"But do you enjoy it?" Uruha trailed off, brought to the memory of Aoi after hours. The clean scent of spirits on his breath always seemed to ease the path of sadness in his eyes. It directly conflicted with the vivid imaginings of the sparkle in Aoi's eye under the chandelier, the way he would enjoy the back-and-forth banter behind the smokescreen he blew from his own mouth. Which was true? Both?

"Sometimes. Depends on the night, on the clients. On whether or not I see you afterwards." Aoi hummed lightly to punctuate the little tease, proving the power he had to strike right through Uruha's skin and straight to his heart. "Now it's my turn to ask a question..."

Uruha paused, stiffening a little. His hands froze holding a finished braid, mind racing with the possibilities...

"Can you stop braiding my hair?"

Uruha grimaced but forced his hands to his sides. In cumbersome complacency, he waited until the beats of silence became unbearable.

"It's going to look weird half-finished," Uruha grumbled, fingers lightly tapping against the worn leather. "But whatever."

It wasn’t like Aoi had asked him to do it in the first place. It just started happening, the silken locks were so soft to the touch.

The compliance seemed to cause Aoi's chest to rise and fall dramatically, sighing audibly on the exhale.

"You never play along." Aoi sighed again, though the curling up of lips indicated anything but dissatisfaction. "Don't you want to know why I want you to stop?"

Uruha huffed. "You clearly want to tell me."

Glinting eyes stared up at Uruha, paired with teasing tones. Attempts were made to blot out the guesses; anxiety rearing its head despite the knowledge Uruha had, despite the assurance.

_ 'Because you're uncomfortable with it? Because you're bored? Because you want me to leave, because, because-' _

"Because I'd like to kiss you." The raven-haired man swooped upwards, a blur of black braids hitting the leather and his nose a few inches away from Uruha's own. Aoi's words were grating, as if he was asking his date to pass sugar or commenting on the weather, "I'd like to kiss you a lot, actually..."

Not the dark seducer of daydreams, the host with the low-lying voice. Beckoning. Instead, casual. A nervous half-smile. Cracks in that armour and breath that seemed to hang in the air. One of the fingers that brushed over the back of his hand had the makings of a string-wrought callous. Uruha's lips came crashing, inelegant collision with a mind of its own. Close-lipped and eyes scrunched shut, soft against soft.

Imperfect. Invaluable. Real.

Not thinking had never felt so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you kill me, take into account the fact that I'm working on an epilogue one-shot! It was going to be a sixth chapter but didn't really fit with the tone of the fic. This is what happens when you don't outline, but boy have I learned from my mistakes.
> 
> ANYWAY~ Thank you so much for reading, whether you loved it or you hated it I'm glad you were along for the ride. Especially huge thank you to the commenters (and my wonderful beta, especially you!!!), you guys motivated me and kept me going the whole way. This is a product of your love too! So thank you all. This is the first chaptered anything I've ever finish so if I'm overexcited, that's why! 
> 
> Stay tuned for the one-shot, and if you want to see what was going on in Reita's life during this fic :3


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